It was in this spirit that they drew near to the hour when the question of life and death would be determined. Ruth’s heart seemed like to burst with the conflict raging in it—sorrow, anxiety, despair—she knew not what to call the burden, but she knew it was a burden. She spent hours in her own room, resenting all interruptions, resenting every call from Susan to come down and take a little nourishment; even almost disposed to resent the bulletins for which she waited breathlessly as they were from time to time spoken through the keyhole in Susan’s low-toned voice. “He is no worse than he was half an hour ago, Ruth;” or, “The doctor thinks there must be a change before night;” or, “Dear Ruth, he murmured your name a little while ago the doctor said.”
Presently Ruth came out of her room and down to the library—came toward Susan sitting in the little rocker with her Bible in her lap, and said, speaking in a low tone so full of pent-up energy that in itself it was startling:
“Susan, if you know how to pray at all, kneel down now and pray for him—I can’t. I have been trying for hours, and have forgotten how to pray.”
Without a word of reply Susan arose quickly and dropped on her knees, Ruth kneeling beside her, and then the words of prayer which filled that room indicated that one heart, at least, knew how to pray, and felt the presence of the Comforter pervading her soul. Long they knelt there, unwilling, it seemed, to rise, even after the audible prayer ceased. And it was thus that Judge Burnham found them, as with light, quick steps he crossed the hall in search of them, saying, as he entered:
“Courage, dear friends, the doctor believes that there is strong reason now for hope.”
The crisis passed, Judge Erskine rallied rapidly, much more rapidly than those who had watched over him in the violence of his sickness had deemed possible. And it came to pass that, after a few more tedious days of waiting, his room was opened once more to the presence of his daughter. Fully as she had supposed that she realized his illness, she was unprepared for the change which it had wrought, and could hardly suppress a cry of dismay as she bent over him. Long afterward she wondered at herself as she recalled the fact that her first startled rebellious thought had been that there was not such a striking contrast now between him and his wife.
There was another disappointment in store for her. She had looked forward to the time when she might reign in that sick-room—might become her father’s sole nurse in his convalescence, and succeed in banishing from his presence that which must have become so unendurable. She discovered that it was a difficult thing to banish a wife from her husband’s sick-room. Mrs. Erskine was, apparently, serenely unconscious that her presence was undesired by Ruth. She came and went freely; was cheery and loquacious, as usual; discoursed on the dangers through which Judge Erskine had passed, and reiterated the fact that it was a mercy she didn’t take the disease, until, actually, Ruth was unable to feel that even this was a mercy! There was a bitterer side to it. Her father had changed in more ways than one. It appeared that his daughter’s unavailing grief for him, in becoming the victim of such a nurse, was all wasted pity. He had not felt it an infliction. His voice had taken a gentle tone, in which there was almost tenderness, when he spoke to her. His eyes followed her movements with an unmistakable air of restfulness. He smiled on his daughter; but he asked his wife to raise his head and arrange his pillow. How was this to be accounted for? How could a few short weeks so change his feelings and tastes?
“She is a born nurse,” Ruth admitted, looking on, and watching the cheery skill with which she made all things comfortable. “Who would have supposed that she could be other than fussy? Well, all persons have their mission. If she could have filled the place of a good, cheerful, hospital nurse, how I should have liked her, and how grateful I should feel to her now!” And then she shuddered over the feeling that she did not now feel toward her an atom of gratitude! She looked forward to a moment when she could be left alone with her father. Of course he was grateful to this woman. His nature was higher than hers. Beside, he knew what she had done, and borne for him, here in this sick-room. Of course he felt it, and was so thoroughly a gentleman that he would show her, by look and action, that he appreciated it; but, could his daughter once have him to herself for a little while, what a relief and comfort it would doubtless be to him. Even over this thought she chafed. If this woman only held the position in the house which would make it proper for her to say, “You may leave us alone now, for awhile. My father and I wish to talk; I will ring when you are needed”—with what gracious and grateful smiles she could have said those words! As it was, she planned.
“Don’t you think it would be well for you to go to another room, and try to get some rest?”
“Yes,” said Judge Erskine, turning his head, and looking earnestly at her; “if any human being ever needed rest, away from this scene of confusion, I think you must.”